Looking Through You

It still surprises Bill sometimes that Leonard takes his camera everywhere with him. It’s a black monstrosity with far, far too many many buttons and a flash bulb that’s half the size of the camera itself. The sight of it, along with the black turtlenecks Leonard’s so fond of, makes him look a little like an art student who wishes it were 1959 (and doesn’t that just make Bill feel old?). The whole thing feels a bit like one of Leonard’s phases, like directing, that will pass in a few years. Leonard would probably actually tell him to go fuck himself if Bill ever told him that.

The thing is, Leonard’s not very careful about his public photography, haphazardly taking photos left and right, going through film so fast Bill’s spent more than his fair share of occasions waiting as Leonard leans over the nearest flat surface to pry out the old film canister and put in the new. Bill really hates waiting.

There are exceptions, though, when Leonard finds something particularly fascinating. Once, Bill was stuck in some hotel lobby, waiting for Leonard to finish contorting around some cactus plant or another, wondering just why this particular plant was so important. It was a cactus plant. It was green. It had spikes. They were in this particular hotel for a Star Trek convention, and Bill really wanted to get out before the fans started showing up, so he made a joke about Leonard spending as much time on this as he did on naked women.

Leonard had just laughed, taken his final picture and said that yeah, he was, before elbowing Bill in the ribs.

At cons, Leonard only brings the camera with him when he’s not being paid to be around, when he’s not speaking or signing autographs. Bill sees him out on the floor, shooting pictures of awestruck Trekkies dressed as Klingons or that android from the second series or those aliens with the massive foreheads and ears. Leonard’s always been comfortable around the fans in ways that Bill will never quite understand. Though Bill won’t say he doesn’t enjoy the free ego boost they give him.

Still, Bill’s finding he doesn’t really like spending time with Leonard at cons these days. Leonard has somehow become even more of a rock star since the new movie came out, and Bill sometimes feels as though he’s just the old guy standing next to Spock Prime, instead of William-fucking-Shatner, who he is. He makes the mistake of muttering something along those lines while Leonard’s in earshot, and Leonard tells him he’s being a narcissistic, self-absorbed drama queen.

Bill sputters a bit about it, because he can, and Leonard pulls his camera out and takes a shot -- with flash -- to shut Bill up.

It’s surprisingly effective.

One day, when Bill is visiting Leonard, the maid lets him in and tells him that Leonard’s in the darkroom towards the back of the house. Bill’s never been to Leonard’s darkroom before, so this is a new and exciting experience. A black curtain hangs in front of the doorway, and another one inside that. Bill pushes inside each of them as carefully as he can. He remembers what Leonard told him about not letting any outside light in, because it’s bad for the film.

Inside the room is about as dark as the name would suggest, even with the dim red light on the ceiling. It takes Bill’s eyes a few moments to adjust to it, and even then, he still feels like he’s in a B-list horror movie, just waiting for the serial killer to get him. The air smells acrid and bitter from the chemicals Leonard’s been using.

“Leonard?” Bill calls out, but the room is empty.

Along the far wall, black and white photos hang from a clothesline to dry. Bill moves closer to get a better look.

The first one that catches his eye is of a Trekkie in full Spock regalia, striking a mock-heroic pose, his hands on his hips, his head tilted upwards, his expression blank and Vulcan. The picture was clearly taken on the con floor; there’s a blur of Trekkies in the background, a few booths at the edges. The fake-Spock doesn’t have Leonard’s sharp features, but he does have some of Leonard’s severity. It’s something in the hard line of his jaw, the darkness of his eyes. Bill wants to reach out and see if he can trace it on the photograph, but he doesn’t know if that would screw up the image, so he doesn’t.

The next one is of Walter making a funny face to the camera as he sits in a cheap, plastic chair. He and Leonard were probably waiting backstage somewhere, goofing off to pass the time. Bill doesn’t remember being there, so he probably wasn’t, but he’s been wrong about that before. The camera has picked up the gray in Walter’s hair, the deep laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. Walter’s become old, too, like the rest of them. But he looks happy, too, his eyes bright and warm.

Bill finds a picture of the cactus next. It could have, should have, been as dull and as uninteresting as Bill found the cactus itself. But there’s something about the angle, maybe, or maybe the sharp contrasts of the black and white palette, that gives the cactus a surreal quality. The spikes look huge up close, like alien architecture, like some forgotten world ready to be explored. It’s beautiful, somehow, through the lens of the camera. He remembers the way Leonard zoomed in on it as soon as he noticed it, like there was something special about it that only Leonard could see.

Behind that image of the cactus, there is a series of photographs of, well, Bill. Bill sitting and talking in front of a group of fans, his hands held up to demonstrate something about the story he’s telling. Bill’s back as he talks to his agent on his cell phone. Bill with a script in his hand, his reading glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose. Bill’s profile as he naps on a deck chair on Leonard’s back porch. Bill’s face in extreme close-up, an eye, an ear, part of his smile. Bill taken by surprise by the flash, his mouth open and his eyes wide.

Bill remembers some of these pictures being taken. The last one, obviously. The close-up when Leonard had shoved the camera in his face on a whim. Maybe even the one with the fans. But he doesn’t know when Leonard could have caught him reading or on the phone, or maybe he just doesn’t remember it.

And there’s something about these photos that Bill can’t quite put his finger on. It’s true that Bill doesn’t look the same as he did when he was twenty-five (nobody does, really), but the way he looks in these photographs, the way Leonard--

Bill hears the sound of footsteps behind him, the faint swish of the curtain being pulled aside, and he steps back, suddenly embarrassed. He feels as though he’s gone through something incredibly private, like he just read someone’s diary.

It’s Leonard, of course, who steps inside. He smiles as he sees Bill standing there, and Bill feels like he’s seeing Leonard for the first time. He wants to touch Leonard’s face, his neck, his ears. He wants to say, I may be a narcissistic, self-absorbed drama queen, but I still wish I could see myself the way you see me. The words stick in his throat. “I like them,” he says instead, gesturing towards the clothesline.

“Thank you. They did turn out better than I expected,” Leonard says. He sounds perfectly normal, like his entire world view hasn’t changed, and maybe it hasn’t.

Bill feels the urge to touch one of the photographs again, to make sure they’re real, that he’s not beginning to hallucinate things, but they’re still dripping water onto the floor. Bill says, “I think I like that one the best,” and points to the one of him being taken by surprise. There’s something about his own expression, the way his eyes look straight back at the camera, that says it’s not just about Leonard seeing him, but about him seeing Leonard back as well.

Leonard laughs, the sound deep and rich, the grooves around his eyes crinkling. “You can have it,” he says.

In the dim red light, Bill can’t quite read Leonard’s eyes, but he can feel the years between them stacking up, one on top of the other, all that laughter and sadness and pain. It’s almost like the cactus; take a look at it from another angle, and everything about it changes.

He pulls Leonard into a hug, wrapping his arms tight around Leonard’s back. “It’s good to see you again,” he says into Leonard’s shoulder. He presses his lips to Leonard’s cheek, feels the rough stubble of Leonard’s jaw.

Leonard pauses for a moment, keeping quiet for a few seconds as he returns Bill’s hug. Then he says, “Bill, you’re an idiot,” with that annoyed-affectionate way his voice gets.

“I didn’t know,” Bill protests, because it may be true that he’s spent too much of his life paying more attention to himself than the people around him, but he still can’t believe he missed this.

He feels blind, grasping in the dark. Leonard’s lips are soft and dry and Bill kisses them, and they feel so strange and so familiar. Leonard kisses back, his hands warm on Bill’s skin. It’s a brief, scratchy kiss, not going any further, but when pulls back, Bill still feels stunned by it.

He stands there for a few moments, just trying to take it all in, trying to memorize every line of Leonard’s face. He can’t believe he doesn’t know them all already.

Leonard smirks, smug in that vaguely infuriating way of his. “Bill,” he says, “you should take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

FIN.